


Advent XXII

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Holiday Stress, Holmes Brothers, Sibling Rivalry, flouncing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaaaaand--Sherlock and Mycroft mix it up. Because Christmas. Because brothers. Because old family dynamic. Because CHANGING family dynamic. Holmes Family blood sports. Flouncing. Huffing. </p><p>The non-Holmes members of the weekend should have sold tickets to the Jerry Springer fans. They'd have made a fortune....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent XXII

What the fuck? Janine thought. What the fuck was it with those two—Mike and Shay carrying on like two tomcats in an alley, all hiss and fur and tails up in the air and bottle-brush fat.

“Ah—I see you devoted some thought to your gifts,” Sherlock drawled as Mary opened a package containing a sleek black cashmere sweater. “Perfect professional-wear for the—“

“Shut it, Sherlock,” Mary growled, and smiled at Mycroft. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you. I love it.”

Mycroft cocked his head, sparrow-like, even as he gave a gracious little nod. “You’re more than welcome, my dear—and in spite of my dear brother’s suggestion, I intended nothing by the gift.”

“Of course, not,” Sherlock responded, glowering. “Because you’re the last one to know when something’s a little not-good.”

“Sherlock…” John rumbled, uneasily. “It’s just—“

“What every top-flight assass—“

“Shut it, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, and glanced uneasily over toward Mummy and Father. “You’re one to talk about ‘a little not-good.’ Show some decorum. It’s Christmas.”

“But you hate Christmas,” Sherlock snipped. “Or, no. Not anymore. Now you’re Father Christmas and the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, all rolled into one.” He smirked. “Of course, you’d need four to make room for—“

“Sherlock!” Lestrade barked, even as Janine smacked the prat’s arm with the back of her wrist and scowled at him.

Sherlock swiveled and turned hot eyes on Lestrade. “Ah, yes. And here we have it—the reason for the season. Are we to expect a happy declaration, then? I’m sure Mummy and Father will be delighted.”

The room fell silent. Mummy and Father sat side by side on one of the big sofas, clutching hands.

“That is what this is about,” Sherlock drawled. “A demonstration of your domestic bliss? Your marital competence? Of course, you always were the capable one, weren’t you?”

“Sherlock—what are you on about?”

“He’s just moved on to the fraternal rivalry portion of the planned events,” Mycroft snipped. “A day early, of course. I believe the St. Stephen’s Day murders aren’t supposed to happen before Boxing Day, tomorrow.”

“How clever of you to work that out,” Sherlock snarled. “But, then, you always were the smart one.”

“Sherlock, what’s wrong,” Mummy said, voice worried. “What’s happened to upset you?”

Sherlock tossed his head and glared at Mycroft. Then, in a pitiful voice, he pouted, “Oh, just Mikey. As usual.” He sighed, and rose, an expression of long-suffering anguish on his face. “If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him. Far be it from me to complain…on _Christmas._ ” He tossed his head, and swanned out of the room, the skirts of his robe fluttering with almost as much dramatic effect as if he’d been wearing his Belstaff.

Mummy frowned at Mycroft. “What did you do, Mikey?”

Mycroft’s face was a frozen mask of stiff discomfort and artificial calm. Unfortunately, Janine thought, it made him look guilty as hell: all that effort to hide hurt and confusion came across far too like smug cunning defensiveness. “I have no idea, Mummy. He’s your son—why don’t you go talk to him?”

Mummy’s eyes narrowed, and Father gripped her hand tight before turning to Mycroft. “I think I’ll take us out for a bit of fresh air,” he said, softly. “It’s been a long time since we were this social. We’ve lost the knack.”

Ooooh, Janine watched something small and bitchy and aggressive blossom in Mycroft’s eyes—some angry retort—only to be forced down. He nodded, graciously, and said, “Perhaps we all need a bit of a break. Greg? I’ll be up in our room if you want me for anything.”

“Why don’t I come along with you?” Greg asked.

“Best not,” Mycroft said, tersely, and strode out of the room in his own flurry of fuss and flounce.

The room was, finally, Holmes free. The silence was stunning.

“Well,” Mary said, brightly. “Wasn’t that fun? We should do this more often.”

John’s tension snapped, and he started to laugh, helplessly. “Oh, God. I knew we should have stayed home. I knew it….”

“No, love,” Mary said, a bit absently. She turned to Janine. “Go out to the boy,” she said. “He needs you.”

Janine huffed, crossing her arms across her chest. “Why would I do that? The gobshite’s just made dog’s dinner of Christmas, for God’s sake.”

Mary shook her head. “Go to him—and—look, I doubt Mycroft knows, but he _did_ start it. That comment when he found you dancing together. Sherlock doesn’t know how to be the little brother caught with his hands inside a woman’s robe. And Mycroft—he doesn’t know how to be the gay brother who finds his baby brother with his hands inside a woman’s robes. So they both wrong-footed. Only Sherlock’s Sherlock, and he takes it beyond all reason.” She sighed and pushed her drooping forelock off her face. “He’s probably strutting like a peacock, thinking he’s cleverly struck back in kind, instead of having just behaved like a little savage.”

“And I’m supposed to do what?” Janine growled. “Teach him better?”

Mary shrugged. “Punch him if you like. I don’t care. Just—don’t leave him to think up worse while he’s at it.”

Janine sighed, but rose and left.

Lestrade, standing unhappily by the tall tree, said, “Mike didn’t mean any harm.”

“No?” Mary asked, tartly. “He never does, does he? But he can’t stop the sarky comments any more than Sherlock can stop rising to the bait.”

“They’re not going to change, you know,” John mumbled. “Not at this age.”

“No. But they can learn to understand it all a bit better,” Lestrade said. “It would help.”

They fell silent. After awhile, John said, “So. What do we do now?”

“I don’t know about you,” Mary said, “But I’m going to play with my daughter—aren’t I, sweetie?” She leaned down and picked up little Em, who through the entire proceedings had been busily trying to slide a fat red bead along the chunky wires of a child’s bead-maze. “You’re what Christmas is about, aren’t you? Yes, you are!”

John sighed, and rose. “I’ll DJ a bit, then,” he said, and hunted online until he found the right song….

_There’ll be laughter and tears over Tia Marias_

_Mixed up with that drink made of girders._

_‘Cause it’s all we’ve got left as they draw their last breath_

_Ah, it’s nice for the kids, as you finally get rid of them,_

_In the St. Stephen’s Day murders!_

**Nota Bene:** God Bless Elvis Costello for this song, an answer to every case of Christmas family overexposure ever. [The St. Stephen’s Day Murders](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8fPvODASoI). The mixing of Tia Maria with Irn-Bru (that drink made of girders), by the way, does not seem to be a recommended standard cocktail. One assumes it's one of those bad ideas people get when they are already soused and stressed.....


End file.
